Icarus
by lamentomori
Summary: Like Icarus, CM Punk was destined to soar, gliding to great heights in the WWE. All he needed was one man to hand him his wings. Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.
1. Opportunity Knox

Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

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There are moments in your life when you meet someone; someone that you know will change it forever. Paul E Heyman has had many of these moments, many instances where someone has crossed his path and he has known that this person will make an impact. There are so many, he's certain he's forgotten them all but one stands out, one person in particular stays clear in his mind. Philip Jack Brooks, the man, well boy really Paul supposes, sitting in the chair opposite him. Skinny-fat and covered with tattoos and piercings, entirely not in the mould that McMahon likes, entirely wrong for the WWE. Really, as Paul sees it, it should be a no-brainer; this man is going to be a star. There are some who won't agree and yet there is that something that Philip has, though there is no way he will find stardom easily in the WWE. There is something of Icarus with Philip, something that screams that if you let him try, he'll fly _into_ the Sun, bringing profit and glory for all involved. Yet, Paul is resigned, it will take skill and genius to give his new found Icarus his wings. He could to soar the dizzying heights, that Paul knows he can, if only given the chance, finding that chance will be difficult, though because really, he's not in the right mould.

"You know, Philip, there is no smoke without fire." Paul smiles easily, it's an odd lead in, he knows but everything has a purpose, everything has a point.

"What?" But the poor thing, he looks so very confused, eyebrows knit, hands almost wringing in his lap.

"You ever wonder just _why_ it is _certain_ men get pushes and others, more talented others, don't?" If he's honest with himself, Paul is surprised at the amount of self-control it takes to keep from leering at the boy and a boy Punk is at this moment. The penny is dropping and Paul can tell that he doesn't like the landing site. "Everyone has their _preferences_, shall we say."

"What you getting at Heyman?" He's trying for cool and calculating but there's a glimmer of fear, of discomfort just under the surface and Paul feels a spike of something, a desire to soothe that concern, to placate him and bring back the cocky punk the boy should be.

"You're not really Vince's type, is all I'm saying, Punk." His eyebrows raise and he turns away, unable to meet Paul's eyes. "Oh, come on! Surely you've heard the rumours, a rub for a rub, right?" Punk sighs, turns his face back to almost look at Paul, the pot plant on the shelf behind his head must be terribly offensive, given the glare Punk's directing at it.

"What do you want?" He looks so desperately uncomfortable, shifting slightly in the chair, trying to look relaxed and failing so miserably.

"What makes you _think_ I want something, Philip?" Paul tries to keep his tone mild. "I have plans for you, _big_ plans."

"What do you want." It's no longer a question, it's a flat statement, the boy it seems understands the concept that nothing in life is free, a rub for a rub.

"To watch." Paul can't quite imagine _touching_ Philip, not yet at least but watching him, he can picture that so easily. Punk's raises one eyebrow.

"_Watch_?" His tone almost incredulous.

"Hmm, that's all." Paul examines his fingernails, nonchalant and uninterested, inside bubbling with excitement.

"I, uh, I've never." The boy trails off, looks away again, at the floor, hair hanging in his face.

"_Really_?" A quick shake of his head. "Never? Not even a circle jerk?" Another shake. "You surprise me, Philip. I would have imagined being out on the hustle, would involve a lot more, well, _hustling_." Paul can't help but laugh. Punk looks so horribly uncomfortable, staring at the floor like he wants nothing more than for it to open up and devour him whole. "Here." Paul throws him a small bottle of lotion and watches as Punk stares at it, gulping, his adam's apple bobbing like he was some cartoon character.

"You just want to watch?" He says softly, eyes still trained on the bottle.

"I'll sit right here." Paul nods slightly, pats the armrests of his chair and grasps them, indicating he intends to keep his hands to himself.

"I say no?" Punk's eyes dart up quickly, as though trying catch a glimpse of the sun, the idea makes Paul smirk slightly, little Icarus afraid of burning his wings, not yet realising its Paul, himself, who is feathering those wings, with this one little action, this one little moment, that first step towards flight will be made.

"Then I'm sure someone else will say yes." Paul steeples his fingers and rest his chin on them. "This can't be the first time some promoter has propositioned you, Punk."

"I." He sighs, looking at Paul, looking uncomfortable and so very young.

"Ah, the first time you've considered saying _yes_?" A quick nod. "Just close your eyes, Philip. Don't worry about giving me a show. Relax, picture something, _pretty_."

"Okay." He sighs and nods, fingers fumbling with his fly, drawing his flaccid cock out, a quick coating of the lotion to one palm and his eyes are firmly closed, hand stroking his length slowly. Paul watches, analyses the situation, considers the boy in the chair. His long, thin fingers, the way they wrap around his dick. His cock, slowly hardening in his hand, how for all his nervousness, with his eyes closed, he seems to be perfectly relaxed. _What you can't see, can't hurt you_, Paul supposes. It seems a shame that he's a wrestler, there is something about Punk, something that would do well on camera, away from violence, something to show off the soft curves and the elegant lines of his body. Yet, life is much easier when you don't try to persuade wrestlers out of wresting, another thing Paul has learnt over the course of his long life in the business. Punk's hand speeds up, his head flops backwards and he makes a tiny, almost inaudible noise, something soft and quiet. Paul's attention stops wavering, his mind caught by the show his Icarus is providing without even meaning it. _Beautiful_, it's a stray thought but one Paul can't shake, Punk's fingers wrapped around his cock, those slender, inked digits stroking the shaft, thumb swiping the head, smearing pre-cum, one nail, painted in chipped black, teasing the slit. His throat, bared, vulnerable and open, yet in this situation, it's Paul who feels weak, Paul who feels as though he's in danger. Punk has infinitely more power than he realises right now. When he comes, he's quiet, like a teenager trying to keep from being caught by overly interested parents, biting his lip, eyes screwed shut.

"So, Philip." Paul says, once Punk's breathing has returned to normal, once his chest has stopped heaving. His eyes flicker up, then back to the floor. Paul tosses him the box of tissues on the corner of the desk. "Let's talk about you being OVW Champion."

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**Brokenspell77**, you are a terrible influence! I hope you enjoyed your first chapter.

_Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it.**_


	2. Rub for a Rub

Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

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Honesty is not something Paul E Heyman is overly comfortable with, at least not in a professional sense. Professional wrestling is a business built on deceit. Lies told to the fans in the name of entertainment, lies told to wrestlers in the name of saving a buck, lies told to promoters in the name of making a buck. Fake/real, real/fake, kayfabe, all smoke and mirrors, to make the marks believe what you want them to believe, hide the bad and accentuate the good. If you asked Paul when is a work not a work, he would laugh at you and tell you that it is _always _a work. He's certain that this is why so many relationships in professional wrestling fall apart, everyone is working everyone else and no one trusts anybody, it's a world he is familiar and comfortable with.

Yet, it still came as a surprise to realise that little Icarus had worked him. It wasn't obvious to Paul at first, no, it had taken a visit from the best friend to realise that perhaps, sweet, shy little Punk was not quite as inexperienced as he would have led Paul to believe. Grown men are rarely that comfortable around each other, unless there is something else binding them together and well, Punk and his dumpy little friend were _very_ comfortable with each other. If he's honest and Paul does so hate to be honest, even with himself, he's more impressed than annoyed about being worked by Philip; it shows that he's not wrong in his pinning his faith in him. It takes more than a pretty face to work Paul Heyman; it takes cunning, intelligence _and_ a pretty face.

The time he spends in OVW, Paul feels, is a waste of his talents really, both his and his Icarus', really television, national television is where they both belong but Vince is stubborn in his hatred of Paul, stubborn in his determination to force Paul to fit some manner of McMahon approved mould. The idea amuses as much as it frustrates him so he endures, watches his little Punk get more and more over in a tiny little territory, in the armpit of nowhere and sings his praises in memos to Stamford.

"I received two memos this morning, Philip." It's back in Paul's little office, where he mentions this to Punk. The other man sitting on the same chair, though the timid act has been dropped in favour of something more assured. Paul almost misses the nervous, hand-wringing child but the man opposite him has become something of friend, the nights spent teaching him how to edit and produce television has given them a bond. It's an unexpected bond but then again what bond is ever really, truly expected in this business?

"That's _nice_?" He looks mildly confused, Paul hands him the first memo. A little note saying that they're are restarting ECW. Again if Paul is honest, how he hates that, he knows that this will not be the ECW he created, this will be the WWE-approved version of his grubby bastard child, homogenised and cleaned up, made to fit the mould. Another not-so subtle punishment from McMahon, another sharp little reminder that Vince is in control. Punk's eyes flit across the paper, eyebrows drawn, twisting the little ring in his lip around and around, a mildly distracting habit, it draws far too much attention to those thin lips of his. "I see." He set the paper back down and sighs. Paul nods and hands him the other memo. This time, Punk's eyes harden, narrow. Rage, genuine, soul deep fury is something Paul has never seen in his little Icarus and if he's honest, once more, it's rather beautiful; fire and wrath are good looks on Philip.

"Memo number two, Philip, memo number two." Paul steeples his fingers. "You see, I told you, you're really not Vince's _type_." Memo number two informs Paul that CM Punk is not to be used on national television, he doesn't have the right look, the company has no faith in him. "The way I see it, Philip, memo number two is bullshit. However." Paul pauses, waits for Punk to place the sheet of paper on the desk, the edges creased and crinkled.

"However?" Punk asks softly, eyes still trained on that sheet of paper. Paul grabs it and crumples it up into a ball, tossing it into the wastepaper bin.

"I have been given full authority to build the ECW roster as I see fit." Paul smiles easily, Punk shifts in the chair, discomfort flowing over him.

"And?" He says softly, still looking at the desk where the memo was.

"I believe we've had this conversation, Philip." Another shift and Punk's eyes finally meet Paul's own.

"A rub for a rub?" He sounds rather hopeless and small. Paul smiles easily, little Icarus is rather good at playing naive but fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, well no one fools Paul Heyman twice.

"Coy is a good look on you, Philip but you can't use the same work twice." Punk's eyes narrow and a lazy smirk spreads over his lips.

"What do you want, Heyman?" He sounds slightly resigned and bored, as though he'd not been expecting to get away with the innocent act twice and had reconciled himself to giving Paul something more this time.

"To watch." Paul smiles easily, opens a drawer in the desk and throws Punk the little bottle of lotion again. Punk stares back at him, one eyebrow raised.

"_Watch_?" He sounds mildly surprised, like he'd been expecting more.

"I'll stay right here." Paul pats the armrests of his chair and smiles easily. "Though this time, more of a show, Philip. Get undressed." Punk stands, takes the beanie off his head, pulls off the over-sized hoodie he's wearing and toes off his sneakers. The t-shirt and jeans follow quickly, till all he's wearing is his boxers and socks. Paul nods to the battered sofa along one wall. "A show, Philip."

"Yeah, yeah." He mutters, hair hiding his face, he sheds the boxers quickly and sets the lotion down on floor by the sofa. He lays down, his body stretched out; arms over his head, back arched just slightly, the light glinting off the metal hoops in his nipples. Paul's focus is on the tattoo on his stomach, the way it follows the curve of his rib cage, declares his morals and principles so boldly. It's a hell of a gimmick. A good gimmick is as much about the man that has it, as it is about what the gimmick is, you can make anything a good gimmick. Take the Undertaker, for example, that gimmick is, essentially, a wrestling zombie controlled by a little fat man but make the wrestling zombie, Mark Calloway and the little fat man Percy Pringle and you have gold. A gimmick is a hook, a lead in, a point of reference for your marks; it's the men you give that gimmick to, that makes them stick around. Punk, his gimmick is himself, well a facet of himself, shine the light through him differently and you get a different reflection, the whole _straight edge_ thing, it's a hell of a gimmick. Punk trails one hand down the other arm, down his throat, over his collarbone, long fingers stroking his skin, simple but captivating, eyes firmly clamped shut, lips parted, breath soft and even. His fingers pinch and tug on one nipple, a soft gasp and his hips rise slightly, one foot braced on the floor. His hand skims over his stomach, one finger dips into his belly button and Paul is certain that shouldn't have been quite interesting as it was but quickly his hand is moving further south, down past his genitals and stroking down his leg. He lifts the leg his fingers are caressing and reaches up, pulling off the sock, showing some impressive flexibility and a teasing hint of his ass. The other leg, he picks up from the floor and rises it up beside the first, if the desk was in a better place, Paul would be able to see his asshole and suddenly interior design seems so much more interested than it had. The foot is back on the ground quickly and Punk grabs the lotion, covers one palm and takes a hold of his cock, stroking it slowly, teasing it to hardness with one hand. The other he trails over his chest and stomach, fingers lingering where it feels best. Paul watches, shifting in his chair slightly, the urge to take a hold of his own cock is strong but this is neither the time nor the place for that. He opens the desk drawer and tosses something else to Punk. It lands on his stomach and his eyes fly open, hand fumbling to grab the dildo, neither big nor small, merely average and flesh coloured. He stares at it incredulously and glares at the pot plant behind Paul's head.

"A _show_, Philip." Paul reminds him easily, smiling and crossing his arms over his chest, watching with cool detachment as Punk takes up the bottle of lotion again, coats a finger and eases it inside of his body. He bites his lips and his eyes screw shut once more, as he moves that one finger in and out of himself, more lotion and two fingers are inside of him, stretching and opening himself up. "Turn to face me." Paul directs casually and Punk plants both feet on the floor, then takes a hold of the dildo, coats it in lotion and slowly eases it into himself. "That's it, _slowly_." Paul murmurs, watching Punk fuck himself, the dildo probing deeper with each movement until eventually the fake balls rest against Punk's ass. He takes his cock back in hand and strokes it firmly, regaining the hardness lost through inattention. "Keep fucking it." Paul guides him, Punk's other hand takes a hold of the dildo and manages to fuck it in and out a little, he lets go of his cock and concentrates of fucking himself, both hands pulling and pushing at the fake cock in his ass.

"_Fuck_." It's a soft little pant under his breath but Paul hears it clearly. Little Icarus has finally found his prostate and keeps the dildo fucking at that angle, his legs spreading wider, hips moving to meet the dildo's movements. He uses one hand to keep the dildo inside of his body and starts jacking off with determination, chasing his orgasm. Coming quietly is Philip's preference, it seems, his lip between his teeth, eyes firmly closed. He lies panting for a while and Paul watches him, studies the way his chest heaves and his eyes remain closed, eventually Paul throws him the box of tissues and Punk takes the dildo from inside of him.

"So." Paul clears his throat, carefully not looking at Punk as he pulls his clothes back on, instead focussing very carefully on the glass of water he's pouring. Punk sits and sets the dildo down on the desk, very deliberately, a smirk on his thin lips. Little Icarus, clearly thinking he's won this round and if Paul is honest, he might have. "I believe, there will be a space for you on the ECW roster, Punk." They talk a little more and eventually Icarus leaves, closes the door behind him and Paul smirks, and sends off a quick email to Stamford. Little Icarus doesn't need to know that the second memo is old, that the _real_ second memo Paul received that day was an exasperated _are you sure you want him on your roster_? Little Icarus may have worked Paul once but Paul is not one to let that lie, he's been in this business a long time after all and everyone is _always_ working everyone else.

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**Rebellecherry**: Thank you! I'm not sure if believeable is a good thing though! LoL I'm relieved you thought Paul was okay! :3

**littleone1389**: Little Punk is a devious wee soul, I'm glad he worked you too! :D

**EmbraceLove**: Punk was just gorgeous with the eyeliner wasn't he? :3 I'm very flattered that you only read this cause it was me, flattered and flustered, if I'm honest!

**batwolfgirl**: No, don't be scared because of me! The others, yeah, they are intimidating as all get out though! LoL

**Brokenspell77**: I had to have the real struggles in there, I've never tried writing something entirely kayfabe... I am glad you enjoyed it though, you terrible influence you! I hope you liked this one too.

**alizabethianrose**: I'm not sure I'd say Paul was evil, manipulative and far too clever for his own good but _evil_, not Paul E! He loveable, kind of at least!

**bitter-alisa**: Mentor! Your presence is both unexpected and most welcome! I shall endeavour to live up to your expectations! :D

_I don't listen to the voices in my head,_

_I watch the pretty pictures there instead._

_Watch to see what they do,_

_Write it down, to share with you._

_What you think good or shite,_

_To find out, will be a delight_

_So with that in view,_

**_Please, leave a review._**

_See I do poetry as well... my English teachers would be so proud. :3_


	3. Martyr

Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut (pegging), Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

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It had taken his own martyrdom to free Philip from him. Now perhaps martyrdom is an extreme term but Paul knows extreme well and knows that Philip was only _part_ of the equation, Vince _hates _ Paul for numerous reason, both professional and personal but his departure, _did_ leave Punk free, flying away from him, like Icarus off to meet his own fate.

Paul followed his progress, causally watching, waiting to see if the WWE would concede that Paul had been right _again_ but nothing came of him. Try though he might, nothing seemed to come of the man better known to the World, the WWE Universe and if that isn't arrogance in the _extreme_, that McMahon sees his market as his own little _universe_ in which he is the Creator God, as CM Punk. So on that particular night in June, when Philip, Paul's little protégé, sat on the ramp to the ring and spoke, it made the little hairs on the back of Paul's neck stand on end. This was not the man, the WWE wanted to shape Philip into, talking. This was CM Punk, the snarling creature Paul had been _gifted_ in OVW. This was a man who spoke not from the script but from the heart. This was Paul's Icarus and he was soaring.

However, like all things McMahon hasn't manufactured in his little universe, Icarus' wings were clipped, saddled with the Championship title, the cornerstone of this little universe, which was somehow less important than watching John Cena chase an old man around the ring. Frustration and annoyance are powerful tools in the hands of a man like Philip Jack Brooks, a man who thrives on adversity, a man who called and with a grin in his voice asked Paul to come to him.

"Well Philip, what can I do for you?" The restaurant where they're meeting is quiet, one of those places where the food is better than the cheap décor and lousy waiting staff would suggest. Philip smiles at him, an easy, happy, little expression and returns to reading his menu.

"I want you to come back." He says, not looking up from the menu, voice nonchalant, like he was discussing the weather rather than asking Paul to return to the WWE. Paul laughs and sets his menu down, picking up his glass of water and taking a long drink.

"I'm quite content being out of that place, Philip." Punk looks up, eyes narrowed. Paul prides himself on being difficult to read, on it being very hard to know if he's being serious or not but this is dangerously close to the truth. There is very little that will persuade Paul Heyman to return to the WWE Universe. His occasional forays with Brock notwithstanding. Brock and microphones should be kept very far away from each other, it's a public service more than anything and if nothing else, Paul likes to, mockingly, believe himself to be a philanthropist at heart.

"I'm turned, at Raw one thousand." Punk says, eyes looking with Paul's, expression open. "I want you to manage me." Paul laughs once more.

"I, truly, can't think of anyone who needs a manager _less_ than you, Philip." Punk shakes his head.

"I disagree." He sighs. "I might be fine on my own _but_ together it'd be something else." He sounds ever so slightly like he's pleading.

"Something _special_?" Paul asks, the smirk on his face, Punk nods as the waitress arrives, takes their order and leaves, all with surly efficiency. Paul admires that in Chicagoan waiting staff, miserable bastards but efficient. Punk fidgets in his chair, seems to be systematically shredding his paper napkin. "They've already told you they want you to drop it to Dwayne." It's not a question, not really but Heyman knows that _Twice in a Lifetime_, will require something else to hook the marks and giving Cena the strap, won't give Golden Boy his redemption. Paul almost shudders, he will never understand Vince's fondness for those overly muscled creatures, especially not when there are things like Punk on the roster, elegantly slender creatures, with personality and intelligence and miserably beautiful eyes, ringed with exhaustion. He's abandoned dismantling the napkin, in favour of pushing food around his plate, a distant look in those eyes of his.

"The Rumble." He mutters, setting his fork down and drinking his own water.

"Really, they're letting you keep the strap a _long _time." Paul is surprised; by his calculation, it's well over four hundred days.

"Uh, four hundred and something, there's another four and maybe a three in there somewhere." He sighs and picks up the fork again, stabbing at the food on his plate.

"So, you want to make some kind of _impact_? Before all the hard work you've put into giving their strap prestige, is undone by giving it to a part-time, movie star?" Paul asks, setting his own fork down on his empty plate and regarding Icarus. "What do I get out of this?" Punk's eyes flicker back up to Paul; he sets his fork down, pushes the plate away from him.

"What do you want, Heyman?" His voice is so very tired, as though all he needs is a good rest. Paul smiles slightly; by now, he would like to think Philip would be aware what he wants.

"Not every Jew is orthodox." Paul says calmly, ordering a coffee from the waitress, when she comes to collect the empty plates.

"What?" Punk stares at him, confused.

"Not every Jew is orthodox." Paul takes a careful sip of the coffee. "How _straight_ is your edge, Philip?" Punk's eyes widen and he shifts uncomfortably, eyes dropping to stare at his hands. He's quiet for a long time, just sitting staring at his hands. Paul is, honestly, not certain if this is little Icarus trying to work him or not. It's been some time since Paul's spent this much time with Philip after all. Finally, once Paul has finished his coffee and is standing to leave, Punk catches his wrist.

"Straight enough." He keeps his eyes downcast. "What do you want, Heyman." Not a question, a soft little statement. Paul laughs and removes Philip's hand easily.

"Let's go."

The journey to Paul's hotel suite is quick and quiet, Philip keeps his eyes downcast, if this is a work he's playing it perfectly, Paul thinks but he does nothing to ease the tension between them. In the room, Philip removes his outer layer quickly, shoes, jacket, ubiquitous Cubs cap. His hands go to remove his shirt and Paul clears his throat loudly.

"What I want is to watch, Philip." Paul says mildly, his eyes flitting to the closed bedroom door in the two-room suite.

"But I thou-" Punk starts, confusion colouring his tone.

"If you'd like to come here." Paul calls loudly, the door opens and a woman pops her head around the doorframe, tall and curvaceous, her bust impressive, her hair long and the colour of tree bark at night. Punk's eyes widen as he stares at her.

"I-" He starts, turning to Paul with confusion.

"How straight is your edge, Philip?" Paul raises one eyebrow and watches indecision go to war in Philip's eyes. Poor little Icarus, Paul almost spares him this decision, when he looks hard and firmly at Paul.

"Not every Jew is orthodox." He says and pulls his shirt over his head. Paul smirks slightly at the woman.

"Well?" She nods and walks into the other room, Paul watches Philip's eyes widen once more. She's naked, except for the harness strapped to her groin, a dildo protruding from the front of it. Philip glances back at Paul and he knows that there is a smirk on his face. The woman takes Philip's hand and leads him to the bed in the other room. Paul sits on the chair in front of the bed and watches as the woman unties and slides Philip's pants and boxers off. Paul observes coolly as the woman strokes down Philip's chest, over his stomach and takes a hold of his cock, her hand stroking him slowly, bringing him to erection with practiced ease. "Kneel." Paul knows he sounds bored and Philip meets his eyes nervously. He moves to the middle of the bed, kneels facing Paul, who looks the woman in the eye, nodding slightly. She grasps Philip's shoulders and pulls them back. Once his head is at the right angle, she eases the dildo down his throat, Philip makes a frantic little choking noise, hands trying to push the woman away but she is relentless and Philip won't hurt a female. Paul watches, watches the way his body is arched, the line of his throat, the way his thighs are spread, showing his balls and wilting cock clearly. He tosses the woman a bottle of lubricant, an upgrade from the lotion and she catches it easily, removing the dildo from Philip's throat as she coats her fingers. He's gasping for air and rubbing at his throat, staring watery eyed at Paul. "Careful with your nails." Paul says to the woman and she laughs.

"I won't hurt your pet." She says, her voice haughty and cool. Paul is of the opinion that wrestlers could learn a lot from whores. Both make their money with their bodies, only whores are smart enough to collect first. "How do you want him?" She asks, regarding Philip like he was some mildly interesting piece of art.

"Doggy." Paul says calmly, she nods and nudges Philip, guiding him to rest on his hands and knees.

"Like this or the other way round?" She asks, her hand busy behind Philip. Paul can tell the exact moment she breaches his ass with one finger; he makes an odd soft keen of a noise.

"Carefully." Paul admonishes her and she laughs again, Philip's head drops down, he gives a soft drawn out moan.

"I know my job." The woman's voice is calm, bored almost. "Feels good, little pet?" The woman asks Philip, he nods, a short sharp little gesture. "Think you're ready for another one?" He nods again. Paul stands, walks around the bed and watches as two of the woman's thin fingers move in and out of Philip's body, scissoring and stretching him open. "One more." She slides a third in and Philip seems to tense. "Good boy, you're doing fine." She talks softly to him, stroking his flank as she preps him efficiently. It seems to be a trait of this city's service sector, efficiency all round, Paul thinks with a wry smile. She pulls her fingers from him and coats her dildo with lube, then moves behind him, stroking his ass cheeks, pulling them apart and spitting at his hole, he makes a miserable, degraded little sound. "Shhh, all part of the show, little pet." She picks up the lube, drizzles a little over his asshole, and lines the tip of her dildo up. Philip's little hole, opening and closing slightly, his nervousness showing in this most intimate of places. "Ready?" She asks and Philip nods, she eases the tip inside of him and he makes another odd noise. Paul absently wonders which part of this is causing his little Icarus the most problems, being taken by a woman, that woman being a whore or knowing that he is doing these things for no reason other than his career, that at this very moment, Icarus and the whore are the same. Well, _almost_, out of this, the woman will make a few hundred dollars but Icarus will make millions and Paul, Paul will guide him higher, take his title reign and elevate it from the stagnant banality, Creative has made it and make it something worth remembering. Together, they will soar.

"Okay?" The woman asks Philip and all he does is nod, his head stays bowed as the fake cock pounds in and out of him. The woman has gathered speed, her hips pumping smooth and fast, her nails digging into Philip's flanks slightly.

"Touch yourself." Paul says softly, moving back around the bed and sitting back on his chair. Philip raises his head and meets Paul's eyes, holding them as he pumps his cock. His orgasm overtakes him quickly and he comes quiet as ever, biting his lip. He collapses, eyes half-lidded, he looks tired, soft and sleepy. The woman pulls out of him and starts removing the harness, picking up her clothes and putting them on once more. Paul stands easily, once the woman is dressed and ushers her to the other room of the suite, closing the door behind him, leaving his Icarus resting in a post-orgasm daze. She leaves and Paul goes back to the bedroom, sits back on his chair, watching Philip sleep, smirking lazily.

He had already decided to return before having Philip do this, had decided as soon as he had first called Paul. It took barely any thought to make this decision, to return to his Icarus, to re-feather his wings and offer the solid presence of a manager at his side, not because Philip lacks in mic skills or even really needs him but for the sheer joy of working so closely with him once more. A mind like Punk's has to be kept active, has to be challenged, has to be poked and prodded and kept focused. His mind, it's a wicked and dark mire and the path he walks in the WWE is already treacherous enough. A good friend, a good _advocate_, has to be there to guide him through the labyrinth before him and that is what Paul wants to be to Philip. A good friend and once more his advocate, his staunchest supporter in this ridiculous universe of McMahon's.

* * *

**Brokenspell77**: Alas, the real life events stopped Paul from having too much input in his ECW days. However, I did manage to work in the pegging you mentioned once so there's that. LoL

**littleone1389**: I hope it remains intriguing. :3

**batwolfgirl**: Ha, I'm not sure I've ever been given a more weirdly amusing compliment in my life! Thank you! :D

_Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...**_


	4. Check in Three

Warnings: Minor Slash (Heyman/Punk), Slash Smut (Ryback/Punk) Blowjob, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

* * *

There is a saying about the best-laid plans of mice and men, though Paul is convinced that nowhere in that saying is there any mention of the WWE _Creative_ team and the pervasive hatred of Vince McMahon. It is more than frustrating returning to the WWE. Paul is, more often than not, convinced that it is a worthless endeavour attempting to bring quality booking to a company which has forgotten what it is. He can't help but wonder what Vince Senior would have made of _Sports Entertainment_. If he's honest and he is alarmed at how often he is these days, Paul, himself, isn't sure what he makes of it. Yet, for Icarus, he endures. They fight together, fight creative, fight bad decisions, fight to try to establish some kind of reasonable push for those who deserve it. It is a hard job, guiding little Icarus without any kind of real power or influence and Paul is a man who often wars with himself on whether hard work brings rewards or not. In the WWE, it seems that the reward for hard work is often jobbing. He's listened to Philip's tirades on the way that the Ryder Revolution was crushed, comparing Creative to jackboot wearing thugs and Cena as their most favoured weapon.

Cena and Punk, Paul considers their relationship to be, perhaps, the most interesting in the whole company. It's curious, watching cool, collected Cena laughing raucously at something Punk has said, watching him trying to make Punk laugh, the _goofy_ edge of his personality coming out in an attempt to amuse Philip and Philip, for all his apparent friendliness, with that core of aloof disdain. Paul isn't exactly certain what Cena has done earn the ire of Philip, he thinks it's probably related to the dumpy best friend but really there are all manner of things that people would never consider related to _that_ relationship that Paul sees so very clearly. Then of course, it might be how Cena treated Philip when he first arrived. Cena fully admits that the praise Paul and the Internet gave Punk, somehow damaged him in Cena's eyes. There had been a feeling of _is that all? _Paul had laughed in Cena's face when he'd told him, had assured John that the _all_ of Philip in his youth was and is far more than anyone in this company has ever and will ever recognise. Paul will fully admit that the shock on Cena's face had amused him more than it should have, the almost squawked _you're still that high on him_, had been so very entertaining. The phrase perhaps more than it should have been, the idea of being _high_ on a man who is straightedge, definitely amused Paul more than it should have.

Hell in a Cell is approaching and the feud they have heading into it, sees Punk in the cell with the latest pet project of McMahon, Ryback. Awful creature all round, limited talent, prone to getting gassed, atrocious on the mic and huge, grotesquely over-muscled, the sort of thing that gives Vince wet dreams and makes Paul shudder. This feud, it feels rushed, this flirt with the main event will damage Ryback but Cena is injured and Creative went into panic mode. They fussed, they worried and have no idea what they're going to do. Ideas are tossed back and forth like a Frisbee and Paul watches as chaos reigns. Yet, the feud, such as it is, was set up decently, the tension building, Paul and Icarus playing the roles of dastardly villains with eloquent grace, Cena, the wounded hero, as ever playing his part with diligence and Ryback, trying, which Paul quickly realised is about all he could expect.

"They told you _anything_ yet?" Punk is stretching, body contorted into some unreasonable position, showing the lines and curves off beautifully.

"No more than they know, Punk." Paul mutters and sits on a crate. He knows he shouldn't be staring but Icarus is a work of art and should be appreciated as such appropriately. Punk snorts and changes position, one foot on a stack of crates, his legs jack-knifed. Truly, a work of art, Paul thinks as he lets his eyes roam over the curve of Icarus' ass.

"They tell you guys anything bout the finish, yet?" Ryback, Paul absently thinks he should perhaps remember the man's name, Skip, maybe but that might have been a gimmick.

"Nothing." Punk snaps shortly and Ryback looks slightly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, glancing nervously at Punk's back.

"You wanna go over some stuff for the match?" He asks, fidgeting even more, hands wringing, eyes no longer merely glancing but lingering. Paul's eyes narrow, it's not difficult to notice when people are staring at Icarus, are in the process of coveting him. What is difficult, getting more and more difficult for Paul, is to stop from punching them and throwing some kind of covering over _his_ Icarus. Punk lets his foot drop to the floor and turns to look at Ryback, the set of his shoulders gives away his annoyance, at the interruption, at still not knowing the finish to the Pay Per View, on the damn night of the thing, Paul couldn't say for sure. He wonders if he should perhaps advise Ryan, Paul is unreasonably proud to have remembered the man's name, to fuck off. However, it is Fate and not Paul, that smiles kindly on Ryback this day and Philip's cell rings.

"What you want, fucker?" He answers. Paul thanks God that it's the best friend, if there's anyone on this Earth capable of keeping Philip happy and distracted, it's that man. Paul makes a mental note to show face at Synagogue, at some stage, in the future, if Adonai is looking out for him by sending a fellow Jew to help him, he should probably say thank you. "Ha, what do you think?" Philip picks up his hoodie and starts pulling it on. "What? No! Don't be fucking ridiculous, Cabana! Oh, sure and then I'll break out the kryptonite. Ha, if I thought it'd work." He puts his hand over the speaker. "I'll catch you later?" He says to Paul, the first smile of the night on his face. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously, man, wrong. Just plain, fucking wrong! No! Wait, what? No, no one told me anything." Philip returns to his dumpy little friend, barely sparing a glance at Paul and Ryback is completely ignored. His voice fades the further down the corridor he walks, till the little area is silent, save for the sounds of Ryback breathing.

"I, um." Ryback looks helplessly at Paul and the trickles of a plan flow through his mind.

"Mr Ryback, I have a proposition for you." Paul stands from his crate, straightens his suit jacket and smiles at Ryback.

"What?" He asks, staring at Paul, all earnest and hideous.

"I have an idea of a nice tidy finish for everyone involved." The other man's eyes light up, Paul claps his hand on his shoulder. "Something that lets you lose and yet still look strong." Which is more than anything Creative would come up with, Paul adds to himself.

"I'm listening, Mr Heyman, sir." The man reminds him of an ugly puppy, hideous to look at but at least eager to please.

"Well, I'm glad you'll _listen_. You see, Mr Reeves." Honestly, Paul is even more proud of remembering the surname to go with the first. "It's a very simple proposition I have for you." He nods, grinning inanely. Paul gently guides him along the corridor, to look for Punk, searching in circles. Eventually finding him sitting cross-legged, on the same crate Paul had been sat on earlier.

"Philip." Paul smiles easily at his Icarus, who looks back, all haughty disinterest, Ryback forgotten between them.

"What do you want, Heyman." Not a question, Paul smiles. It would seem, Philip had seen this game coming, had already laid out his pawns and is waiting for Paul to join him. Paul's smile bleeds into a smirk, Philip smirks back and stands, leading the way to his dressing room. Ryback has attempted to say something several times now but really, he's not a player in this game, he's a piece, not even an overly, valuable one at that. A knight, maybe a rook at most.

"To watch." Paul says softly, once the door is closed. He'd explained the bare bones to Reeves whilst searching for Punk. _Service the Champ and the Champ's manager will ensure that you're not overly damaged by losing_. Paul would like to think that this roided up lump will be able to grasp the concept, though as he stands there looking at Philip like he has no idea what to do, Paul thinks maybe he should have been _slightly _more graphic.

"Hmm." Philip's looks thoughtfully at Paul, ignoring the third man. Philip's eyes have an odd little gleam in them, Paul briefly regrets not making the plan more explicit even more that before, this is little Icarus' show now and Paul isn't sure where he's going to take it. "So, a rub for a rub?" He laughs softly and pushes down on Reeves' shoulders, he lands on his knees with a grunt and looks up at Philip but Icarus' isn't looking anywhere but at Paul, eyes locked and calmly focussed. He takes his cock out from his pants and jacks it hard. Reeves, thankfully, gets the message and moves forward, taking Philip's cock in his mouth, his hands resting on Philip's slender hips. It's slightly painful for Paul to watch another man touching _his_ Icarus. Infuriatingly Icarus seems to know this; a lazy smirk on his lips as Reeves moves his head back and forth, gathering speed and moving one hand to cradle Philip's balls. He makes a soft little moan and presses his hands back against the wall. Reeves, it seems is talented, it almost takes no time before Philip is moaning almost constantly, nails scraping at the cheap plaster on the walls, leaving little furrows in it, his eyes closed. Paul watches everything above the waist, there is nothing appealing about the man on his knees, nothing that interests Paul in the least. His eyes are focused on Icarus' face and it is fascinating. Paul catalogues every twitch of an eyebrow, each little moan from between those thin lips, the way his long eyelashes, fan and flutter over his cheeks.

"_Fuck_." Soft and needy from Icarus', this means he's close, desperately close. Paul finds his attention caught by the way the plaster is crumbling under Icarus' nails. It feels like there is something of a metaphor to be read there but Paul forces it from his mind, turning his attention once more the beauty of his Icarus as he reaches his climax. As he comes down Reeves' throat, Philip's eyes lock with Paul's, his lip between his teeth, something Paul doesn't particularly want to think about stirs in his mind, something to do with plaster and metaphor. He shakes his head and watches as Philip comes down from his peak, chest heaving, a little sweat glistening on his brow. A lazy little smirk spreads over his lips as he mouths; _Rogue Ref_. Paul can't quite help the answering, amused smirk spreading over his face. Clever little Icarus worked it out all by himself, it would seem. Once Philip has righted his clothes, Ryback stands, looking nervously between both Paul and his Icarus. It is, perhaps, cruel to include other people in this game but sometimes in war, there are civilian casualties. The air is taut with tension but it seems as though dumpy best friend is acting as Philip's guardian angel today, his cell ringing once more.

"What now? You know, I have a life, unlike you, apparently. I might have been. Stuff. WWE Champion things. Blah, blah, blah. My wrist is almost as sore as yours." Philip leaves the room, still carrying on the conversation. Paul nods vaguely at Ryback, explains the finish quickly and leaves him standing in Punk's dressing room, alone.

That he's been requested to attend a meeting with Creative, is interesting, Paul thinks as he settles in a chair, looking at room full of people with notepads and cups of coffee.

"We agree that the rogue referee idea, you proposed a while back, is the one to go with tonight, Paul E but, Phil put forward something interesting when he came by to confirm the finish. Wrestlers, huh? They'd forget their own heads. We're thinking it might be something for Survivor Series. What do you think?" The head writer says, laughing nervously.

"I am sorry, what is _Interesting_?" Paul asks dryly. So that's how little Icarus knew the ending, clever boy, working him again and not the same work twice, he's learning, Paul thinks, a stab of pride warring with a glut of irritation.

"Calling up some guys from NXT to interfere in the main event. It's good, we like it." The writer continues, _we like it_, Paul resists the urge to scoff, _McMahon likes it_. He's liking ideas of Philip's entirely too often these days.

"Did he say who we had in mind? I'm as bad as the boys in the back with my memory." Paul asks with a half chuckle, voice nonchalant, like he was discussing the weather and not planning to get the upper hand back from little Icarus. The score, as far as Paul can tell, is two all; he means to rectify that soon enough.

* * *

**littleone1389**: Intense is kind of how I'd describe this whole... relationship to be honest! :D

**EmbraceLove**: Paul is a persistent man, that is very true but then Punk is a tricksy and stubborn one, 2 each so far is the score. ;)

**Brokenspell77**: I am kind of fond of the _how straight is your edge _line too, to be honest... :3 I am relieved you enjoyed your pegging scene!

**alizabethianrose**: Well, I'll leave it up to you on whether Punk was working Heyman or not! LoL Paul seems to have decided it wasn't a work, if that helps any! :3

_Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...**_


	5. Olive Branch

Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut Blowjob, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

* * *

"Three, two." This was all Philip said in Paul's ear before he left the ring. The score, a work played on a grand stage indeed, the first play in a long time. There had been no time for games, November bled into December and then The Rumble had been upon them and The Rock had claimed Icarus' title. Whilst Paul had considered making a move then, Icarus hadn't seemed in the mood. Philip had raged and railed and Paul was certain that the dumpy best friend had to be sick of one-sided rants. Then there came The Streak. The utter stupidity of how they started the feud, another rant at dumpy friend that ended with Philip wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Paul thinks that if there was ever a case for hiring Colt Cabana, it is his ability to take a furious, righteously angry Punk and reducing him to a hopelessly laughing wreck, the atmosphere backstage would improve, if nothing else. However shoddily the feud was started, the escalation was a thing of beauty, behind the scenes, Icarus fretted and worried and apologised a thousand times to Mark, to Percy's family. Angles can be and should be made of anything though, it had taken several reassurances that this is something Bearer would have understood and been offended by if he hadn't been used as a catalyst before Icarus had conceded and agreed. The match itself was good, Paul expects _good_ from Icarus but the bump his leg took on the table had Paul concerned. The finish went as planned and Icarus limped backstage, was greeted at the Gorilla by the dumpy best friend and the girlfriend, who was rapidly assured that yes, he was fine and no it's nothing to worry about, he'd meet her once he was finished with the trainer.

"C'mere." Cabana had said as he took Icarus from Paul and the two made their way away, to where ever it was they were going. Once again, Paul was grateful for his fellow Child of Israel, Mr Colton is a godsend to those who have to deal with Philip on a regular basis. Paul didn't see Philip until the next night, they kept him in the back, selling the injuries sustained at the hands of the Phenom, really, Paul didn't think that there is much selling necessary, Philip was limping and looking utterly exhausted. Over the course of the week that followed, it was decided that he would be getting some time off, some time to rest, to recover and heal up.

There was a whole spiel, a whole promo that they wanted Icarus to give and instead all he did was pull Paul close, hug him tight, whisper in his ear, give him the mic and leave. Leaving Paul and far too much TV time alone in the ring, the audience in shock and Paul close to panic. Three, two, indeed. By the time, Paul got backstage, Philip had left and all there was to do was face a furious McMahon but Vince for a change had nothing to say. The old man had agreed that the way Icarus had played this had been perfect, that now it could be set up that he returns as a face and can feud with Paul.

Only, Icarus, it seems has no interest in talking to anyone from the company. He's gone, vanished off the face of the Earth as far as the WWE is concerned, he's on Twitter, rambling about hockey, he's photographed at concerts, even the best friend's podcast but wrestling? Nothing, not a peep, not a word, not a sign of interest. Eventually, McMahon sends Paul to talk to him, the _you're his friend_ seemed rather disingenuous and flimsy but Paul has come to learn that Vince McMahon is in general, disingenuous and flimsy. So thought no further on the matter and went to Chicago. Icarus clearly needing his Daedalus to prompt him to jump off the cliff once more.

"What do you want, Heyman?" Philip answers the door, he looks rested, his eyes look less tired, his hair is growing back in, short and choppy, un-brushed and messy, the mutton chops on his face odd but suit him well enough; _beautiful_, as ever. He steps aside and lets Paul into his home. It comes as no surprise that there isn't a glut of wrestling memorabilia adorning the place, every other interest Philip has besides wrestling is represented in his home, wrestling, Paul thinks, is represented in the man himself.

"They'd like you to come back now, Philip." Paul says, sitting on one of the sofas and watching as Philip paces slightly, his knee showing no more signs of pain, at least no more than is normal.

"I don't want to." He says shortly, sits on the opposite end of the sofa from Paul, feet on the cushions, arms around his legs.

"You're under contract, Philip." Paul turns to face him slightly, Philip's head is bowed, he looks tired once more, as though truly the last place he wants to be and indeed, should be, is the wrestling ring.

"I'm tired, Paul." He looks up, catches Paul's eye, looking at him with barely concealed exhaustion, something uncomfortable twinges in Paul, his mind flickering briefly to a cheaply plastered wall and furrows made by bitten short nails, an older memory of those same nails, coloured with chipped black, prefect in their imperfection.

"Your contract expires soon, Philip, until then, you have." Paul frowns, trying to think of the right way to phrase this, it's not often he feels on the back foot but the starkness of Philip's heavy gaze is almost too much. It has been, perhaps, too long since Paul has been the sole focus of those eyes.

"_Obligations_? I don't care." He says, breaking the staring contest to look out of his window instead.

"You're enjoying your holiday, Philip?" Paul asks as he gets off the sofa, walks over to the window and looks out of it. "Rest and relaxation, they do the soul good, don't they?" He watches Philip's reflection, watches him uncurl slightly, sitting cross-legged, head tilted slightly.

"I'm not sure about _souls_ but _I_ feel better." He mutters, Paul laughs softly.

"They want you to come back to feud with me." He says, turning to face his Icarus, who looks briefly confused.

"Why?" He shakes his head, the answer dawning on him, _clever little Icarus_, Paul thinks. "They want me back at the Pay per View here, don't they? Another fucking turn?" He sighs and Paul laughs at him.

"Well, Philip, the fact that you get more cheers than boos, would imply that the marks are more invested in you being a face than a heel." Paul smiles slightly and leans against the window, arms folded over his chest.

"They need a heel; do they have any idea how many faces they actually have?" Paul shrugs and smiles at him as he bristles and fumes silently.

"Creative." Paul thinks that is all he needs to say, WWE Creative, masters in being anything but. Philip sighs and shakes his head.

"No." He tucks his knees under his chin once more and looks rather like a petulant child. Paul sighs and walks over to him, crouches down so that their faces are level.

"Payday is big." A cheap shot, Paul knows and when all Philip does is shake his head, Paul sighs. This feels painfully like trying to persuade one of his children to do something necessary, only he loves his children and he can never quite bring himself to discipline them, quite as often or as hard as he should. How he feels about Icarus, if he's honest, Paul isn't sure. He feels _something_ but what is, fundamentally, a useless question, he doesn't have answer to give, not even to himself. This is likely another round of the game and Paul can't begin to work out what the rules of this round are. Icarus has proven an infuriatingly talented opponent. Three, two, the score against any other opponent Paul has played with, has never been so stacked against him. It's frustrating and impressive, rather like the man sitting hunched up in front of him. "So, Mr Brooks, money won't tempt you back to them?" Philip looks up, something sharp and offended in his eyes and Paul almost smiles, it's a slight advantage but something is better than nothing. "What will?"

"Against who?" He asks, eyes narrowed, chin resting on his knees.

"Jericho." Paul answers shortly, sitting on an armchair facing the sofa, Icarus frowns and shrugs.

"Why?" Paul almost laughs; does he really expect that Creative have a good reason planned? Jericho is free, CM Punk versus Chris Jericho is always a solid match, it makes sense, as much as anything they come up with does. "Doesn't matter, answer's still no. I'm not ready, Heyman." His voice has an odd lilt to it and Paul frowns at him.

"No, Mr Brooks? Surely, there must be something?" Paul isn't sure he's aware of the rules of this game, he's getting rather sick of being on the back foot with Icarus, it seems for all Paul realised there was in him, he rather neatly underestimated him too, not as badly as everyone else, perhaps but just as surely.

"_Something_?" Philip stands and walks over to Paul, drops to his knees between Paul's legs. "There is something." He says softly, seductive is not something Paul wants anyone else to ever hear in Icarus' voice, this low rumble of words, that is not for the ears of the general populace.

"What do you want, Brooks?" Paul says dryly, looking down at his Icarus and for the first time realising that the game they had been playing was always perfectly understood by Icarus, every little round, he has won because he knew the rules better than Paul assumed. There's no power in having someone's climax, someone's weakness, when they give it to you of their own freewill every time. The score is all in Icarus' favour.

"I wanna watch." He smirks, lazy and self-assured. He opens Paul's fly, draws his cock out and wraps his lips around the flaccid length, suckling on the tip softly. Paul stares down, eyes narrowed.

"This is rather involved for _watching_." He says coolly, his hands remain on the armrests of the chair. He feels a chuckle from Icarus and closes his eyes, the vibrations sending little jolts of pleasure though Paul's length.

"Didn't say what I wanted to watch, did I?" Philip smirks as he lets Paul's cock, now hard drop from his mouth.

"That is true, Philip. What would you like to watch?" Paul keeps his eyes focussed on Philip's, this round is confusing and who exactly is winning, Paul can't tell.

"Hmm." Is all he says as he takes Paul back in his mouth and works diligently to bring Paul closer to the edge. The little loop of metal in Philip's lip rubs against his dick, the metal odd and hard in contrast to soft yielding flesh of Icarus' lips. "Look at me. I wanna watch you, watching me." He says as he pulls back, his voice slightly, ever so slightly rough. One hand unzips his pants and draws his half-hard cock out, he licks his palm and starts stroking himself, then takes Paul's length back into his mouth. Paul meets his eyes and stares, captivated by his Icarus, the slivers of colour around his pupils, the way his cheeks hollow and his nostrils flair as he breaths, his hand moving over his own cock just barely visible. _Beautiful_ _and mine_ and Paul is not entirely comfortable with this thought, possession has never been part of the game before but then again, he's never met his match in it before. As Icarus gets closer to his own climax, more moans and vibrations ripple along his throat, transferred to Paul's cock, dragging his own orgasm closer. It's a surprise that when Icarus comes, Paul follows suit almost immediately, feeling his tight throat working to swallow everything Paul could offer. Paul sits back, watches as Icarus recovers, his head resting against Paul's knee, his eyes unwavering, as they had been throughout. He tucks himself back in his pants and laps at Paul's spent cock, clearing any cum he might have missed before tucking Paul away one handed and standing, breaking eye contact for the first time by absently pulling his shirt over his head and using it to wipe his own cum off his hand.

"_So_, Philip, you'll be at the Pay per View?" Paul asks as he stands, Philip's eyes flicker up from his hand.

"Hmm? I suppose. Tell the Overlords, I'll be there, Paul." He wanders to the front door and opens it. "Bye." Paul nods slightly and leaves. He sits heavily behind the wheel of his car and glances at his cell. There's a message from McMahon, received before he entered Philip's home, reading that he didn't have to go to see Punk after all, he'd already confirmed he'd be at the Pay per View. Seven, zero to Icarus. It seems, Paul thinks, rubbing his temples, it's time to stop underestimating little Icarus.

* * *

**batwolfgirl**: I _know_ they were such an awesomely evil little duo! :(

**littleone1389**: Poor Ryback... he was just a prop in a game that went completely over his head. :D

**Brokenspell77**: I am duplicitous, I am afraid. ;) Punk has _always _been in the game. Ryback, he was supposed to be invisible, he's not really part of the game.

**BadgerLynne**: Hello! Nice to see you here! :D Paul's not impotent, though, I have been waiting for that question! LoL It's all part of the game they're playing, power through having the weakness of the other player, only that's not really working out so well for Heyman right now... :D

**alizabethianrose**: Poor Ryback, it's not his fault he's hideous... LoL

**Rebellecherry**: Thank you, Paul and I have been spending a lot of time together... I am so jealous of everyone not in China who don't have to trawl through Chinese equivalent YouTubes to try and find Heyman promos... I'm glad you like him! :D

_Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...**_


	6. Payback

Warnings: Minor Slash (Heyman/Punk), Implied Slash Smut (Ambrose/Punk), Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

* * *

"Evening." Paul nods rather than saying anything to Icarus, when he arrives at the All State. If he's honest, when did he get so very honest in the first place, Paul isn't sure what to say to him. Losing this game of wills isn't something he's familiar with. Paul has been playing this game or at least some variant of it, for so very long and to be beaten so very thoroughly, by someone so much younger, isn't sitting well. Paul E Heyman does not lose this game, he's an expert, it's like a chess master losing to a child.

Punk paces, stretches, prepares for his match, Paul watches, one eye on his Icarus, one moving round the gorilla, trying to select his next playing piece. A pawn, like Reeve, was too small to make an impact on this game; Paul needs a better piece, something more important, a Bishop. His eyes narrow as one of The Shield shuffles over to Icarus, talks to him softly, pale eyes lingering on Icarus' body long after he's been dismissed. Paul smiles slightly, his Bishop has been located it would seem. Chicago never disappoints in its welcome of its favourite son. The noise is deafening, the roar of the people, the chant of the crowd, the swell of noise, crashing like waves in a storm against breakers, in Paul's ears.

As Paul expected, Chris Jericho versus CM Punk is a solid match, though not spectacular. Punk is perhaps a little rusty or still a little injured. Paul watches form the sidelines, plays the part of the meddling manager, almost costing Punk the match, all setting up the feud to come, the feud to kill time. It's painful knowing that that is the only reason this is happening. They want to cut Paul from Icarus solely because they have no idea what to do with Icarus, as he said they have too many faces and not enough heels. The whole thing is ill-advised. Paul watches Icarus limp slightly to the back and resists the urge to have a _negotiation_ with McMahon. They've called Icarus back too soon, his wings aren't feathered well enough, he didn't get to roost long enough and will want to rest his wings once more, sooner rather than later.

"So, Heyman." Icarus says softly, Paul shakes his head and keeps walking; he's not got his pieces in place yet. Icarus smiles slightly and walks to his locker room. "I have no objections, you know." The smile bleeds into that lazy smirk. "If you wanna watch." Paul laughs and shrugs.

"Maybe later, I have some matters to attend to." Icarus laughs loudly and shuts the door.

It barely takes any time to find the right member of The Shield, he'd been hovering down the corridor, watching, listening.

"Watch what, Mr Heyman?" He asks, voice odd and monotonously almost whining. Paul sighs, flaws are so easy to pick out in others, especially when you compare them to Icarus.

"Mr Ambrose, to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" The kayfabe name is all well and good, Paul thinks but the actual name is better. Tt's always better to convince your piece that they are important.

"Just gonna welcome Punk back." He says, all narrowed eyes and suspicion, he clearly thinks he's played similar games before. Paul almost wants to laugh, he can read this little man so easily, for all of his tough guy looks, he's not that good.

"Mr Good, before you do that, may I have a word."

It takes very little to convince him, very little to persuade him that little Icarus needs a good hard _fuck_. People like Good are so easy to understand, they think they are clever, that they understand what is going on but Paul sees the look of shock when he offers him an opportunity at Icarus. He's not half as clever or good as he thinks. It fails to surprise Paul when he jumps at the chance.

"Philip." Paul says as he pushes the door open, Icarus is still sitting, seemingly naked, his gear in a pile near his bag, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"What do you want, Heyman." He says in that soft familiar tone, lazy smirk on his lips. _Game on_ Paul thinks and smiles, steps closer to Icarus. He lets his hand hover close to but not actually touching Icarus' cheek. No touching, it's the one rule to this game that Paul has always stuck to but he would break that rule to touch Icarus, would break all manner of rules for Icarus. "To watch?" His lazy smirk grows and Paul shakes his head, steps away from Icarus as confusion settles over his features, eyes narrowed. Paul smirks, he's scored a small victory in this first volley.

"Have fun." Paul tosses a condom packet to Icarus and lets Good in. He closes the door behind him and sits on a chair nearby, staring at the wall, cheap plaster, unblemished and unmarked. He thinks very carefully of anything but what is happening in that locker room, what he can't see, what he is giving up for victory; his Icarus and another man. Another man's hands running over Icarus' beautiful skin, another man's lips on his Icarus' own, another man's penis inside of Icarus' body, bringing him pleasure, another man seeing Icarus' orgasm. There is no victory to be had from having Icarus' weakness, he gave it freely so victory comes from causing weakness in him but not caring, not witnessing it. Yet, if this is victory, if this is winning, then it is bitter and Paul would rather defeat, at least its sweet in its bitterness. It feels like an eternity before Good leaves the room, a stupid smile on his face and his hair even more of a mess than usual.

"Uh... Thank you?" He says, that stupid smile still there. "He, uh, he asked you to go in. Said there was something he wanted to talk to you about." Good shuffles off down the corridor, Paul glares at his back, eyes narrowed. It's not fault of the man walking away but Paul _loathes_ him more than any one person on the planet at this moment, hates that those hands have touched Icarus, that he has seen him come, hates that for some ill-defined sense of victory, Paul gave that orgasm of Icarus' away.

"Philip." Paul enters the locker room and closes the door behind him, leaning against it and looking at the still sprawled mess of Icarus, cum on his stomach, legs still slightly spread, eyes half-lidded and bored, until they come to rest on Paul, then they spark with something bright and amused. Paul notes these things but ignores them, victory at all costs, he can't afford to be distracted by the beauty of Icarus.

"Your round?" Icarus asks softly, lazy amusement colouring his tone. He stretches and stands, unashamed of his nakedness.

"A concession or another play, Philip?" Paul asks, not moving from his spot. Icarus laughs and shakes his head. Paul can't say he feels like he's won this round, it feels very much like a stalemate.

"Too tired for games, Heyman." He walks over to the bathroom door. "When Cabana shows up, send him in." Paul nods and makes a move to leave. "Next time, Heyman, I'd rather you watched, it's more fun with an audience." Paul shakes his head and leaves. The score, he's not sure what it is in the least. Victory or defeat, it doesn't matter, it still feels as though Icarus has won, as though the cards are all in his hands and Paul is beginning to enjoy the feeling of being so very out of his depth.

* * *

**littleone1389**: The feud is rapidly approaching, it'll play out next week, I'm guessing. :3

**Rebellecherry**: Paul E had to get some eventually... but damn he did get some good spankbank material. ;)

**alizabethianrose**: Participating but still hand off... Heyman is an odd one, I will concede. LoL :D

**Brokenspell77**: I think Punk on his knees is something we all should get to witness at least once in our lifetimes... :3

_Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...**_

_Also, if I may beg your indulgence and ask you to go check out **Amor Vincit Omnia **It's a little something that the lovely **alizabethianrose** has cooked up and let me be sous chef on, your thoughts on it would be greatly appreciated too._


	7. Too Close to the Sun

Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

* * *

We always hurt the ones we love most, it's a sentiment Paul can't say he's ever really agreed with, a sentiment that is essentially nothing more than a good excuse. Whilst that appeals to the promoter in him, the father in him disagrees, the ones he loves most are his children and the last thing he'd ever do is hurt them but the sentiment is about a different degree of love entirely. He had perhaps put a little too much strength behind that ladder shot, a little too much force in flinging it at Punk. Punk on his knees, sweat dripping down his body, staring up at him, a look he couldn't read in his eyes. It had reminded him far too much of that day in Philip's home, of the defeat he was suffering and Paul will admit that anger had clouded his judgement. The first sight of Icarus' blood spilt because of Paul, had almost brought him to his knees. The urge, the overwhelming, all consuming urge had been to staunch the blood, to wipe it away and to take Icarus to the back and protect him but Paul had a job to do. He left Icarus bleeding in the ring and hovered at the gorilla, waiting nervously. The staples to close the wound stand out sharply, glistening little slivers of metal in Philip's sweaty hair.

"I am sorry." Paul manages to say, staring at them, something close to guilt and sincerity filling him, Philip merely shrugs in response.

"Should have moved." His voice absentmindedly distracted, invested in something else, his cell in his hand, his eyes focussed on the little screen.

"Still." Paul trails off and Philip turns to him, a wry twist to his lips.

"I'd have only complained if you'd held back. You know me." He laughs and pulls Paul into a hug, leaves him standing in a corridor, trying very hard to work out how much of that conversation and embrace were sincere and how much of it was Philip playing with him, again? It's confusing, painful and irritating, this continued defeat at the machinations of Icarus, even his one shining moment of being fully certain that he'd won feels tainted. Every time he looks at Good, the urge to beat the smug little smirk off his face rises in Paul and it feels like there's nothing he can do to stop it. However, Paul E Heyman is a man of restraint and violent assaults on essentially innocent playing pieces is far from fair. The next time Paul sees Philip that night, it's with a piece of gauze in one hand held to his stitches, his cell pressed to his ear with the other, his bags at his feet. Paul picks them up and carries them, following Philip as he leads the way to his rental, still softly talking on his cell, the laughter giving away who's on the other end.

"Will you be okay to drive?" Paul asks once the call is ended, the _later Cabana_ confirming Paul's suspicions.

"If you're that worried, you can drive me." He says a smile on his lips and he gets into the passenger's seat, tossing Paul the keys. When they arrive at the hotel, Paul keeps hold of Philip's luggage and escorts him to his room. He pauses at the door and hugs Paul once more. "Good night, Heyman." He says as he closes the door, leaving Paul standing in the corridor.

The F5, Brock delivered to Icarus, the one on the announce table looked painful; the way his ankle clipped the wood definitely looked like it hurt. On his way out, Brock absently asked Paul to extend his apologies to Punk. It had been a misjudgement on his part and Brock is many terrible things but being overly unwilling to accept his own fuck-ups isn't one of them. Paul assured his friend that he would and went in search of Icarus, finding him sitting on a crate, arguing with the girlfriend. She doesn't have long left really, the next one is waiting in the wings, pretty, little and twelve years her junior. Philip treats dating like a gauntlet match, one relationship after the other, all in a bid to find the one. They once had the most curious conversation on the topic of love on a flight. Philip is oddly convinced that there is one perfect person for everyone, it's just they are only perfect at the start. Hearts, like people, get broken, they chip and crack and after that, the perfect person isn't quite so perfect because you're imperfect. Love, he asserted, was a matter of finding someone to break with, someone perfectly imperfect, whose jagged edges and sharp corners, fit well enough with your own. It was an interesting concept, one Paul can see the merit in but he has less romantic notions, love is a chemical reaction in the brain and there is nothing more fickle than the brain.

"What do you want, Heyman." Philip asks, once he's ended the call. He looks to be in pain, his ankle heavily taped, even with the wrappings, it's clearly swollen.

"Brock sends his apologies." Paul says, considering if he should offer to help Icarus to his hotel or not.

"I somehow fucking doubt that." He mutters, standing gingerly and swearing as soon as any weight is placed on his bad ankle. Paul is there, supporting his weight, without really thinking it through.

"I assure you, he was, almost, entirely interested in making sure I told you he was sorry." Paul laughs softly and focuses on the task of supporting as much of Philip's weight as possible.

"Doubt it, if I was going home to Sable, would I hell, give two fucks about anyone here." He snaps, still occasionally swearing when he puts weight on his wounded ankle, as they walk to the parking lot.

The trip to the hotel is uneventful, a brief discussion of how to continue to build for the match at Summer Slam, a brief discussion on getting food that results in takeout from a Subway. This might be a good opportunity to get a quick round in, in his weakened state Icarus might slip up but Paul has every intention of letting Philip rest. He looks tired, he looks in pain and Paul has had more than enough of the feeling of Icarus' warm body pressed along the length of his own, he wants to go to his own room and carefully not think about that.

"Coming in?" He asks, voice sounding as tired, as his body looks. Once glance at him and Paul knows that he'll be tucking Icarus up in bed. He strips down to his underwear, leaning on the bed more than that he really should have to and then sits heavily. "Can you get me some ice?" Paul nods, fetches a bucket and helps ice the swollen ankle. The feeling is uncomfortably similar to when his children were young, when they came to him with grazed knees and bruises shins, only tending to Icarus' aches comes with the awful urge to let his fingers linger on that soft, tanned skin, to touch, to stroke, to caress. Paul tidies up the ice and stands. He sets the bucket on a side table and starts fixing his clothes as an excuse to look at anything but Icarus. "Thanks. Good night, Heyman."

The feud builds, Brock leaves once more, other players get drafted in and it keeps rolling on and on, far past a conclusion. Their segment has just finished and Paul is _almost_ desperate to find Philip, heading to the trainers but finding it devoid of his presence, he does get a tube of anti-septic cream for his visit though.

Eventually, Paul finds himself outside of Icarus' hotel room, the tube of cream, given to him by the trainers, in his pocket and a keycard in his hand, hotel staff really need to be more thorough in identity checks. He swipes the card through the reader, the door lock clicks; he pushes it open and enters. Icarus is lying on his stomach, the covers pulled up over his legs and ass, his beaten back bare. The memory of bringing the kendo stick down on that back, of causing each one of those welts and marring lines of broken skin, flashes through Paul's mind. He steps closer and touches one of the few places that isn't painfully red.

"I am so sorry, Philip." He says softly, trading the card for the tube of cream, opening it and gently rubbing some over one of the wounds.

"Hmm? Heyman?" Philip turns his head, blinking sleepily. "Wha?"

"Shh." Paul murmurs, concentrating on coating the evidence of his assault with the cream. Philip hisses through his teeth, when he comes to a cut that was deeper, blood clotted and hard over the wound. "I'm sorry." Paul says again and Philip laughs.

"I'd have only complained if you'd held back. You know me." He says softly, the same words as the last time Paul spilled Icarus' blood. They bring no comfort, they didn't then and they don't now. This feud, it's dragging, it's getting bloated, they're talking of bringing that hideous Ryback creature into it. The last thing Paul wants is for that man to put his hands on Icarus again. Joe is one thing, Paul likes him well enough, certainly liked Curt enough to want to do right by his son but Ryback. He is one of two men Paul would happily gut, him and that smirking _hound_. Paul manages a slight laugh and stands.

"Yes, well, please hold back when it's your turn to return the favour." Paul watches as Philip blinks sleepily at him and yawns, nodding.

"Sure thing. Good night, Heyman."

Their feud concludes, Paul withdraws from television, returning only with Brock. They exchange no words, Philip is in no mood to talk or play, bristling and ill tempered, even the girlfriend, the one from the wings, seems concerned about him. Paul is never given the opportunity to re-feather Icarus' wings, never given the opportunity to try and he is concerned for Icarus. He's flying dangerously close to the sun, the wax is melting too fast for anyone to be able to help him.

The Rumble match, Paul watched but it felt pointless. It was clear from the word go, who was going to win, everyone knew, from the boys in the back to the marks out front. It doesn't matter how loudly they chant Bryan's name, he's not in this match and your winner is Dave, deal with it. Paul shakes his head; Icarus does good work but as he limps to the back there is something off about him, something missing or something new added. He ignores everyone, Paul included. He showers, changes and is leaving when Paul catches up to him.

"You should get looked at, Philip, the trainers will be looking for you." He turns and stares at Paul.

"I'm fine, just a headache." He throws the keys for his rental at Paul. "Drive me if you're worried."

Once inside his hotel room, lit only by a bedsit lamp, Icarus strips. This feels like the nights Paul would take care of him after their feud took too much out of him physically, only he doesn't stop at his underwear, keeps going till he naked and sits on the bed. Paul frowns, it looks like an invitation to play, it feels like an invitation to play but this game has rules, he does not touch. Yet for Icarus, he has already broken so many rules, it would be no hardship to throw away the last one.

"What do you want, Heyman." Philip says easily, his lazy smirk on his lips. Paul swallows and sits in the chair facing the bed, a chair that's been placed perfectly to face the bed, a chair that Icarus put there specifically for this.

"To watch." Paul manages to grind out, his palms feeling damp, his voice far too quiet. Icarus smiles benevolently and produces a bottle of lube from somewhere on the bed by him. He coats his fingers and shifts, moving further up the bed, back against the headboard, feet planted, knees bent, giving Paul a perfect view as he eases one slick finger inside himself.

"Always watching over me, Heyman. It's strange, don't you think?" He eases another inside, stretching himself slightly. "Look but don't touch." He gasps softly and a third long, thin finger enters him. "I'm tired." He throws Paul the lube. "I'm done." He takes his fingers from himself and moves, hands and knees, presenting Paul with his ass, his hole stretched and ready to be taken. "Stop watching, Heyman." Paul swallows once more and unzips his fly, jacks himself hard and coats his cock, getting on the bed behind Icarus. Sinking into his body for the first time feels curiously like coming home, his head bowed, back arching, smooth tanned skin, glowing in dull hotel room lighting. The heat around his cock is almost unbearable, Icarus' so warm, inside and out. There is a temptation to stay buried inside of Icarus, the temptation to let the rhythmic clenching of his body slowly build a crescendo in Paul but the subtle movements of Icarus' beneath him, the gentle rocking of his hips, it's very difficult to not follow their movement.

"What do you want, Brooks?" Paul asks, his mouth near Icarus' ear, leaning over his back, his head turns and that lazy smirk is just visible to Paul

"Fuck me, Heyman." Paul obliges him, fucks him slow and hard, hands clasping his hips tightly, thumbs stroking the skin of his back, pulling him back into each thrust forward, him moving fluidly with Paul, his nails digging into the covers on the bed. He moves one hand to fist himself and there is a large part of Paul that wishes that they were facing each other, having Icarus' weakness as caused by himself is something Paul covets desperately. He pulls out and pushes on Icarus' hip.

"Turn over." He turns and his gaze fixes on Paul, his eyes glazed with lust, mouth open, panting slightly. Paul enters him once more, feels Icarus' legs wrap around his girth, pulling himself down onto Paul's cock more firmly, tugging him back each time Paul moves back. Age has benefits, the time it takes to come is far longer than it would have been years ago, Icarus' body clenching and tight though it is, is little match for Paul's familiarity with himself. Icarus comes far more quickly, watching Paul as he continues to fuck him, lazily licking his own cum from his fingers. Paul pulls out just before he comes, jacks his cock and comes over Icarus' stomach and his long, thin, tattooed fingers trailing through the white fluid, raising to his mouth, to be licked clean once more. Paul's cock gamely twitches but age also comes with the downside of reduced stamina. He gets off the bed, stares at Philip and for the first time since he met the man, wonders if perhaps he had read him entirely wrong. If instead of Icarus, Philip is the sun and it's Paul, himself, who has flown too close.

"Goodbye, Heyman." Philip says softly, turning his back to Paul once more, pulling the covers over his body. Paul nods vaguely at his back, busying himself with fixing his clothes, putting all difficult questions and thoughts of games and score keeping far from his mind.

"Good night, Philip." He leaves the room and can't quite shake the odd feeling that settles over him, goodbye, not good night.

Backstage was a buzz, noise and rumblings, Punk's name attached but details are thin on the ground. Gone home is the one thing they all have in common. Paul sits on a chair in a hallway, staring at the cheap plaster, his mind strangely calm; it was a goodbye, after all, not a good night.

* * *

******Brokenspell77**: I think it's safe to safe that Punk retired from the game the victor.

**littleone1389**: This would be how their feud played out, an appropriate phrase, I think, seeing as Punk is done with the game and WWE.

**alizabethianrose**: Heyman finally got to be a little more hands on. ;)

**Rebellecherry**: Rulespretty much thrown out of the window at this stage, poor Paul, he's lost terrible and his opponent has left the game.

**EmbraceLove**: ^_^ Thank you so much for your reviews! :3 Well he did get to touch Punk before he quit the game so that's something... right?

_One chapter to go. __Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...**_

_Also, if I may beg your indulgence and ask you to go check out **Amor Vincit Omnia **It's a little something that the lovely **alizabethianrose** has cooked up and let me be sous chef on, your thoughts on it would be greatly appreciated too._


	8. Feathers on the Waves

Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.

* * *

On the third of March, World Wrestling Entertainment's flagship show, Raw comes to the World live from the All-State Arena in Chicago, Illinois. A mere thirty-six days after one of its most celebrated professional wrestling sons walked out on the WWE. A mere thirty-six days of utter radio silence from each of the three men who were in that room on January twenty-seventh in Cleveland. A mere thirty-six days since Paul E Heyman, heard from or at least, saw the man known to the World as CM Punk.

The silence to the World at large, Paul had expected, had anticipated but there was a foolish part of him that had hoped that the final words spoken to him in that hotel room, that _goodbye_ wasn't a goodbye but rather the closing of one door and the opening of another. It feels foolish now to have thought that even briefly. The script for the night is handed to Paul in the morning; habit makes him arrive early to shows in which he's featured. It doesn't matter that he has no control over how the ship is steered, there will always be that part of Paul that wants the helm and that part gets him there early. McMahon stands nearby, scowling at him over wire-rimmed glasses. Time has been kinder to the man than Paul thinks he deserves. Still, strong and solid despite advancing years and retreating hair.

"Go find his punk-ass and talk to him." Paul finds himself staring at McMahon; it would seem Mr Meltzer has been lied to, again.

"His _punk-ass_? Who's ass are we talking about, Vince?" Paul raises his eyebrow and smile genially. "If its Philip, then I, like the rest of the WWE Universe were assured by the ever-reliable dirtsheets, that hometown hero, CM Punk would be making his triumphant return tonight." Vince's eyes narrow and Paul manages to keep the smirk from his face. "Unless, of course, we were lied to. Unless, of course, someone assumed that Mr Brooks would be unwilling to stand his ground in his hometown. Unless, of course, _someone_ didn't make any attempt at truly enticing Mr Brooks into coming back to placate what will be a _rabid_ and _raucous_ hometown crowd." Anger does turn McMahon a truly interesting shade of puce.

"Go and fucking find the bastard, Heyman." He sneers and Paul nods, leaves the arena and goes back to his rental car.

It's not an easy decision to make, on one hand, Paul can go to Philip, can attempt to use rhetoric and bargaining to persuade him to return, even if only for one night and on the other hand, Paul can go to Philip and listen to him, listen and hope that there is a sliver of the man Paul painted as his Icarus left.

He knocks on the door and is greeted by a confused but happy looking Philip, his feet bare, his hair a mess, his clothes looking like he'd just grabbed them and thrown them on, the shirt back to front.

"Wasn't expecting guests." He mutters, leading the way into his home, scratching at the back of his head.

"I can see that." The place looks and feels different to the last time Paul was here, it feels like someone's home.

"Coffee?" Philip asks as Paul sits in the chair he had last time, a brief flash of Icarus' lips wrapped around his cock, his eyes locked on Paul's own, his hand moving over his own cock comes to him but he forces it from his mind.

"No. Thank you but I'm not staying long." Philip nods and sits on the sofa, an odd expression on his face.

"You gonna ask me to go back?" He asks, crossing his legs up Indian style and resting his chin in one palm.

"I already know that would be pointless, Philip." Paul laughs and Philip smiles slightly, picking up his mug from the table and drinking from it.

"Then why are you here?" He asks, eyebrows knit slightly.

"The problem was you were never Vince's type." Paul says calmly, Philip's eyes widen slightly. "Not Paul's either, the fact that you ever got as far as you did, Philip, it says a lot for you." Philip looks away, looks so desperately uncomfortable, shifting slightly on the sofa, trying to look relaxed and failing so miserably.

"I had help." His voice is slightly uncertain, hesitant almost; this wasn't a round he'd been expecting to play. "What do you want, Heyman." Paul holds back a smile, it's a familiar line, this is a game played for the sake of the game but he's not here to play to win this round, he's here to give Philip a goodbye of his own. He's here to give Philip the one thing he never did, to deliver final victory, the complete defeat of Paul E Heyman at his own game and by giving him it, Paul wins. In the end, it's easier to tell a lie, to play games because the truth, well it stings. Yet, if he's honest and for Icarus he usually is, Paul has had enough time to accept the truth. Everyone has their _preferences_ and it just so happens that Paul's run to elegant, overly tattooed, scruffy punks and Philip, well, all Philip has ever really wanted is someone to be his father.

"C'mere, Philip." Paul smiles easily, watches as Philip stands and walks over stopping just in front of him, eyes narrowed slightly, something of the _boy_ that sat in a chair opposite him in OVW about his stance, something uncertain, something timid and young. Paul stands, dusts his suit pants down, straightens his tie and watches as Philip fidgets slightly.

"Wha-" Paul interrupts him by cupping his cheek, drawing his face closer and kissing him. Philip moans softly and Paul lets the hand, not on his cheek, draw his body closer, lets it run down his back to squeeze his ass gently, back up to the mess of his hair. Philip seems to melt, his body relaxing the moment he's in Paul's embrace, hands clutching at the lapels of Paul's suit jacket, soft, needy moans rumbling low in his throat. "Paul, I..." He speaks as soon as he's able and Paul smiles, the same benevolent smile Icarus had bestowed on him in that hotel room, a mere thirty-seven days ago. Final victory, Paul supposes, cancels out every other round of the game, Icarus looks lost, bewildered as Paul steps back from him, walks towards the door of his home. "There's still time. The show doesn't start for hours." He calls after Paul, keeping from turning to look at Icarus is difficult but Paul knows that this game is over, there is nothing to be gained from playing another round for either side.

"Goodbye, Philip." Paul calls as he closes the door behind him.

It should feel like blasphemy, it should feel wrong, like desecrating something precious, yet Paul feels calm, he knows what he has to do, knows what he has to achieve. The first bzzt of static and the crowd erupts. Paul closes his eyes and lets the song play, lets them wonder and wait and just as they are on the edge of losing hope he steps through the curtain. Elation can turn to fury on a dime, the cheers jarringly switch to boos and he takes a moment to soak it in, takes a moment to picture Icarus, striding down the ramp, smirk on his lips and arrogance in his step. Paul walks down the ramp, a pale imitation of the confidence of Icarus but he's sure that if there is one certain television in Chicago tuned to the USA Network, right now its owner is laughing. The first thing Paul does is ask for a mic, catching a glimpse of the gawping faces of the announce team and something settles in his mind, the script that the runner had handed him this morning, the words that they had wanted him to say, the glossing over of Icarus that they craved, that wasn't happening.

"I believe, he deserves louder than that." It's the first thing Paul says and the roars of the crowd grow in volume. If that one television set is switched onto the USA Network, Paul hopes this roar is translated well because in the middle of the ring, he's certain he'll suffer from tinnitus for days. He sits in the centre of the ring, sits _Punk_ style and considers his next words carefully. He has a job to do, he has a match to sell but there is the eight hundred pound elephant in the room to address and no matter how much coffee he's drunk there is still the taste of Icarus in his mouth. Paul closes his eyes, lets the roar of the crowd swell over him like the waves of the ocean, all the while trying to ignore the feathers floating there, feathers and wax melted by the sun. Wings made such unreliable materials have to be so very carefully nurtured but there was only ever one person who believed in Icarus, he only ever had one Daedalus and now Daedalus sits, waiting for the crowd to quieten down and now he opens his mouth to talk and now he tells the story of the Paul Heyman guy no one but Paul Heyman wanted.

* * *

**********Rebellecherry**: I think Paul really did need to get him some in the end, it seemed only fair, really. :D I hope the ending is okay, everything has to end some time, I just hope this one seemed fitting. :)

**EmbraceLove**: I didn't think I'd enjoy writing Heyman slash, if I'm honest. I hope this chapter somewhat lived up to expectations.

**********littleone1389**: I am hoping you like the ending, its kind of bitter, I think.

******Brokenspell77**: I think by now we have to agree that there is pretty much nothing hotter than the mental image of Punk playing with himself. LoL I hope thr last chapter is okay. :)

**batwolfgirl**: You and me both, but alas fanfic writing is the closest to Punk and his pretty little arse I'll get. :(

**BadgerLynn**: ^_^ Thank you _SO_much! Writing the Heyman slash was kind of tricky and I'm glad it came across how I wanted it to. :3

**alizabethianrose**: Alas all things end and this is this journey's ending. I hope you liked it. :D

_And we are done here l__adies and gentlemen, thank you for the incredible reviews, the incredibly kind words have meant a great deal to me, probably more than you all believe, this was quite a departure for me and a pairing I didn't think I'd enjoy as much as I did. So thank you all once more for reading, reviewing, following and favouriteing. As I said this entire fic was inspired by a comment from** Brokenspell77** and as such I'd like to thank him once more for being an awful influence. :3**  
**_

_As ever, __your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: **Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...**_


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